


Arachnophobia

by cherrycola94



Category: DCU, DCU (Comics), Nightwing (Comics), Nightwing (Web Series)
Genre: Dick Grayson Needs a Hug, F/M, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Non-Graphic Rape/Non-Con, Rape Aftermath, Rape/Non-con Elements, no editing we die like robins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-12
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-16 22:00:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28713930
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cherrycola94/pseuds/cherrycola94
Summary: "You’ll become an omen of death."The words echo in his mind, a never-ending loop ofhistaunting."A fate worse than death for someone like you."Dick Grayson's at a dead end. It will never end for as long as one of them is alive, and he's tired of running away.
Relationships: Catalina Flores & Dick Grayson, Dick Grayson/Wally West, Flash/Nightwing
Comments: 6
Kudos: 145





	1. ombrophobia

**Author's Note:**

> welcome back to another episode of Dick Grayson Deserves Better

**Ombrophobia**

The fear of rain- a fairly common anxiety disorder seen in kids and adults alike. The term "ombrophobia" originates from the Greek word 'ombros' meaning “storm of rain” and the word phobos meaning “fear or aversion”.

* * *

Dick’s tired.

He’s so. _Tired_.

He’s been running from **him** for so long and part of him wants **her** to shoot his brains out instead of **his**. **She** warned Dick about how she might shoot him instead, holding **her** handgun, looking all high and mighty. About how **she** might kill Dick instead of **him**. He knows he shouldn’t voice his thoughts at this moment because he can’t afford to show any more weakness to any of them but Dick really doesn’t see much tragedy in his own death occurring.

Dick just wants it to end. One way or another.

_Better me than him._

_Better him than me._

His emotions are alternating between feeling like vomiting his own stomach out of his body or feeling like he’s going to collapse into a sobbing ball on the floor at any given second. Maybe none. Probably both. **Her** lack of hesitation while aiming **her** killing shot makes Dick wish for anyone else to be here. Someone else who’d understand exactly how the word _death_ makes him feel. _Someone like Wally._ He thinks _. Hell, maybe even Bruce. Or Tim._ It becomes depressingly obvious that almost all of his other acquaintances would make him choose the “logical” choice and kill.

There’s no surprise that the people currently present _know_ that he’s desperate for a better solution to this torture but what else is there? Dick feels like he’s grasping at straws with his hands coated in butter.

**She** could shoot **him** and end it right there. Dick would be safe, his friends would be safe, and innocent civilians would be safe. Dick could always just clean up his hero identity crisis. He clenches his jaw at the thought. It would be a long, messy road but he could find a way to fix it, right? Bruce had enough money and influence to fix the situation and Dick could find some way to pay him back somehow. Maybe helping him more with cases? He’d figure it out later.

But on the other hand Dick couldn’t just let **him** _die_.

Most people assumed that it was because of Bruce, which made a lot of sense. Batman spent a good deal of his time as a mentor drilling into Dick's mind that _human life comes along only_ once _. Something that rare is priceless, and not even all the wealth in the world could compare to the cost of a human life. Nobody has a say in who lives or dies_ (even if the person in question is a terrible human being and is threatening to kill innocent civilians for interacting for his enemy) _._ In reality, the real reason why Dick never took a life was because of his parents. Every time the thought of killing someone crossed Dick's mind he'd watch the two strongest people in his life plummet downwards and land in awkward positions on the ground.

Jason ignored Bruce’s teachings and lectures, saying that if he came back he could do it again. Dick could never say it to the second Robin’s face but he could see Jason's fear hidden just under the surface of his tough guy façade. Fear of injury. Fear of dying. Jason’s experience with the pit was an exception, not by any means a rule. Dick knew it. Jason knew it. And everyone who had been told that Jason Peter Todd was now Red Hood knew it.

Dick thinks about killing himself. He seems himself being burnt to ashes, being scattered by his brothers. By the JLA and the Titans. By his best friend and longtime crush. He thinks about the heartbreak they’d feel and _there’s nothing in my power that I can do to make them feel better._

Dick makes up his mind faster than he can actually process and his arm muscles relax for a _split_ second. His survival instincts, conditioned over years of work, kick in and drop **him** to the floor.

Dick gracefully side-steps out of the way.

**She** reacts quickly with deadly accurate aim, as usual. Normally Dick would be thankful for her skill but this time it’s too damn fast for him to process. **His** body lies on the ground with a gritty sense of finality and Dick can feel the splatter of warm blood working its way through his suit.

He gives out an involuntary shudder. And another one. The tremors start off small, but he finds himself shaking so bad he needs to hold onto something _or else I’m gonna fall down and fly away._ Dick looks over at the body, at **his** body, trying to tear his eyes away from it but somehow not being able to look at anything else. He tries to look at **her** face but he just can’t look away because there’s so much blood and all that blood wouldn’t be there if he hadn’t been more careful and **_he’d_ ** _still be alive if I tried to_ think _for another second and_ \--

Dick pinches his arm, jolting himself out of the downward thought spiral. 

He counts to ten, slowly.

_I can do this. I can do this. Think about anything else._

He focuses on the sounds of a draft around the staircase, the metallic smell of the stairwell, the snug feeling of his favorite work boots and the cold stair rail against his bloodstained gloves. 

He looks down at his hands and before he starts worrying he reminds himself that _I’m used to blood. It comes with the job. I’ve bled enough to give transfusions to an entire hospital wing over my lifetime so seeing blood here right now is no big deal at all._

But there’s just _so much_ blood. There’s too much blood here. The stairwell, the walls, all over **her** , and all over his hands.

His hands.

The finger stripes on his suit, normally a playful shade of blue, were stained with blood.

_Another man’s blood._

Dick takes another step back from **his** body, his hands gripping wildly at anything that could support him. His breath starts catching in his throat. He's on the edge, trying to get back up and control himself but everything's slipping away and just _God, I can't... I can't breathe. I can't breathe? Just b_ _reathe. Just do it, man! You've been doing it for years! Come on!_

He trips backward, trying to comprehend whatever the hell just happened and get some space between himself and **him**. There’s not enough distance between the two of them right now. His legs shake as he climbs upward and he weakly shoves the creaky rooftop access door open.

The rain comes down hard in Blüdhaven and today’s no exception. 

_The sky’s crying_ is something Dick’s hazy mind conjures up as he stumbles to the center of the roof. _The sky’s crying because you let him die._ Dick watches himself fall, his knees finally giving away. His faraway mind hears the muted **_thud_** sound they make as they hit the ground. He’s shaking so bad from shock or panic that he has to roll over onto his back to somewhat stabilize himself. He faces upward, letting the rain fall on him. He is… _somewhere_ . Anywhere but where it’s supposed to be. Part of him watches himself from a distance, standing over **his** body and mumbling under his breath that _part of myself died right along with him. I could feel it._

He starts to cry.

He cries because _I’m such a failure_. _I failed Bruce_ , the man who took him in and taught him that there was always a way to save someone. _I failed_ **_her_** , the woman he was supposed to protect from crossing the very line drawn by him when he started talking to her. And lastly but most importantly he’s failed _himself_. He cries along with the sky, crying for the loss of not one life but two.

_There’s blood on your hands_. He cries even harder and asks _am I really here? Is it over? Did it happen?_ Dick wants to lie there until the rain washes him clean and the crows fly over to pick him down to his bones.

_Am I going to watch myself die here?_

He’s so detached he doesn’t even notice **her** coming out of his peripheral vision. And he’s so numb he doesn’t feel **her** sitting right on top of him. And he’s so out of it he doesn’t know that **she** wants him right now because unlike him, losing his damn mind out on the roof, **she** has the audacity to _smile_ from on top of him.

“Don’t… don’t touch me,” He says, loud enough for her to hear over the pounding rain. “I’m--” He's crying so hard he can't even _speak_. “I’m poisonous. I killed… him. _We_ killed--”

**She** clicks **her** tongue at him, smoothing his wet hair back and away from his forehead. And **she’s** smiling that stupid smile. “I killed him, Dick. Now hush,” The weight of her body on top of his is too heavy and he _shouldn’t_ feel this weak under someone he could normally pick up and throw but… he does.

“No,” Dick tried to lift himself up and push her off but finds himself not in control of his own body. How can she want him at a time like this? “Don’t… touch me. You’re my responsibility. It’s my fault.” His eyes blur, a mix of rain and tears. “It’s all my fault…”

**She** waves her hand dismissively and runs her hands on Dick’s body, going way too low for his comfort. Dick feels sick as she unzips his suit, the taste of bile rising up from the pit of his stomach to his throat. It burns.

“I don’t… please _don’t_ touch me.”


	2. genophobia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this part of a song https://youtu.be/Bf01riuiJWA?t=167 gave me enough inspiration to finally write the part two!

**Genophobia**

The physical or psychological fear of sexual relations or sexual intercourse. The term originates from the Greek word "genos" meaning "offspring" and the word phobos meaning "fear” or “aversion".

* * *

The afternoon rain has transitioned from light and sprinkly to a full-scale water assault crashing down onto Gotham’s streets when Dick steps outside of the diner.

_When it rains, I remember._ A small part of him says. That part of him’s standing in front of a mirror, only seeing **his** body with **her** standing next to him. This part of him has been concerningly loud nowadays.

“Earth to Dick,” Wally waves a plastic bag of takeout dinner sausages and room temperature Ceasar salad in front of Dick’s face. Dick wants to grab it from Wally and use it to shield himself from the rain. Better yet, jump onto Wally’s back and have him run them back to the apartment before a drop of water touches his skin.

_When I get home I’ll need to take a shower._ Dick tells himself, shuddering as he steps into the rain. It’s way too similar to the rain from that night and _I feel so…_ dirty _. I really have to take another shower_ . Dick’s hair after a few minutes is wet, wet, wet. He can feel it sticking to his skull and his jacket’s soaked through and it’s just _so_ disgusting. He hates it. He hates it so much.

Waves of jitters take over all of his movement before he realises it and he has to stop himself from shaking even more by clenching all of his muscles.

“You’ve been quite the space cadet lately.” Roy playfully knocks their shoulders together. Dick tenses ( _again? Come on, man!_ ) at the sudden touch and clears his throat.

“You join the Lantern Corps?” Wally adds. Roy cringes at the bad joke and steals the bag of leftover food from him.

“Yeah. Sorry ‘bout that,” Dick replies, squeezing every possible ounce energy he can muster into his voice.

Roy raises his eyebrows subtly at Wally, who shakes his head a little. Dick notices this little exchange, but doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t really feel like saying anything nowadays. Maybe he’ll feel better once he rewires his brain to stop thinking about the incident.

If _I stop thinking about it._

But oh man, it manages to be everywhere. Dick sees **him** on staircases, lying there beaten and bloody because of a single gunshot, and he sees **her** in the mirror after a shower, making him want to scrub all the layers of his skin off with the new bars of gritty soap he bought.

“Dick, you seem,” Roy waves his hand in the air as they cross the road, like he’s trying to hand-pick the right word off of an invisible shelf. “Tired.”

Wally links his arms through Dick’s, (he notices that he stiffens again, much to his annoyance) and slings his other arm around Roy. “Yeah, he’s been like that for a while. Apparently there’s been an increase in the need for his… services.”

Dick nods. The rain rolls down his forehead and into his eyes. He rubs at them, trying to get them dry. But his hands are wet and his eyes are still wet and _everything’s disgusting and I need to go home_.

Dick rubs his eyes a little harder and as he’s doing this Wally’s shoulder casually brushes against his and it feels so much like **her** that Dick can feel bile rising up his throat. Jesus, he can practically _feel_ her hands all over his body right now, on his cheek and trailing down, down, down and _don’t think about it!_ He screams at his mind. _Stop it! Shut up shut up shut up!_

Despite his best efforts to drown out his current thoughts listening to the grand _Star Wars_ vs _Star Trek_ debate with Wally and Roy, Dick can still feel **her** touching his cheek. He rubs his face against his wet shoulder again, trying to somehow rub off the residual memory. The longer he thinks about it, the harder he rubs his cheek.

“I’m gonna head back home from here,” Roy announces.

“I thought you were going to come back and watch Star Wars with us?” Dick says, forcing his cheerful side to make a bigger appearance. It’s reluctant, but it seems believable enough. He figures he can blame his mood on a bad patrol day up until he got back up onto his feet again. Until he stopped thinking about it.

Roy sighs. “I have a _lot_ of chores to catch up on. My house is a mess. And you _do_ seem pretty tired… Plus, Star Trek’s better anyway. I don’t even need to see Star Wars to decide”

“Oh. Okay,” Dick says before Wally launches into another rant about the superiority of Star Wars and Roy’s standing firmly by Star Trek’s side. As they aggressively try to prove the other wrong, Dick tries to keep his mind off of **her** by thinking about a cool new French band that popped up on his Spotify. He focuses on trying to remember exactly what they were singing in a song.

“ _Dis-moi si j’dois... partir ou pas?_ ” He mumbles out loud, probably butchering the pronunciation. He almost never has a reason to speak in French. Wally nor Roy seem to hear.

After a few more minutes of heated banter, Roy bids them a good night before slipping into the dark cover of the Gotham subway. If Roy was any other person, Dick would be worried about leaving him in the subway at night, but Roy was Roy and he’s seen things much worse than gang fights in train carts and angry drug addicts. Once the archer’s out of sight, Wally slides his arm out of Dick’s.

“What’s the matter?” Dick asked. He was just getting used to the feeling of Wally’s elbow jabbing against his ribcage with every step.

“Something’s up with you,” Wally sighs and shoves his hands into his pockets. “You’re not as…”

“As what?” Dick stops walking. Thankfully, the street’s not as crowded here so nobody threatens to beat him up for standing still. Wally just continues onward and Dick has to start jogging to catch up to him.

Dick stares at Wally, trying to blink the rain out of his eyes but his friend’s wearing this inscrutable expression on his face. Dick finds himself unable to read past this poker-faced barrier. Bad, because now it’s hard to know what type of energy to give off in response to Wally. He finds himself hating how good Wally’s gotten at being expressionless over the years.

“You’re not as… _you_ ,” Wally finally says. He takes his Nightwing keychain out of his pocket as they approach a familiar cluster of high-rises.

Part of Dick agrees with what Wally just said. He _knows_ he isn’t acting like himself. He feels like a stranger in his body, flinching at everything brushing against his skin. He tries to stay in the moment but every little thing seems to point him to the thoughts he’s working to lock away.

He stands in rooms, not sure what he wants to do. Waiting for… something to happen. Something to prove that he’ll be okay. Something to show him that he’s moved on. This encounter left behind nothing but bad emotions but Dick longed for a scar.

Back when Dick Grayson’s Robin suit was brand-new and shiny, he had gotten stabbed in the arm in an attempt to halt a gang war with Batman. Blood gushed out in a way that reminded him of a chocolate lava cake, as he sat on the hood of the Batmobile and sniveled miserably as Batman patched up his wound temporarily. While they drove back home towards the manor, Batman pulled his cowl back and told him that they’d need to stitch Dick’s arm shut. Seeing the uncomfortable look on Dick’s face, Bruce told him to _never be ashamed of scars. Scars was a sign that you had been hurt, but also a sign you had also healed. A sign that you were stronger._ Ever since that night Dick didn’t quite so mind the idea of having scars.

_But… have I actually been hurt?_ He wonders at the absence of a scar after… _that_ particular incident. _And have I even healed yet?_ He assumes that if he had been hurt, he certainly wasn’t acting like he had healed.

“I’m tired,” Dick announces again for what feels like the millionth time that night. He grabs Wally by his soaking sleeve and drags him away from the staircase. He’s been using the elevator ever since… _just say it. It’s no big deal_. 

_Ever since… the night_ **_he_ ** _was killed._ Dick’s been using the elevator ever since **he** died and _hey that wasn’t so bad now, was it_?

“You don’t _look_ tired,” Wally yanks his arm back from the shorter boy and walks to the stairs. Dick’s heart clenches at the sound of the squeaky door opening and the ugly gray stairs behind it. “C’mon man, we only live on the fifth floor.”

_Nope. No. I can’t. It’s too soon. Maybe… later? Yeah. Maybe._

“Wall,” Dick tries for a fake smile and he instantly regrets it because _now Wally knows you’re lying! He’s gonna make you climb the stairs!_ “My legs have been _killing_ me. I’ll take the elevator up.”

Wally’s hand still holds the door open, like he expects Dick to follow. 

_No way in Hell am I going there. Not now_ because Dick sees **him** , a flash of bloody, bloody human-shaped meat behind Wally and he takes a startled step backward. He starts counting only the odd numbers backward from 1071, something that somewhat calms him down now.

“You’ve been sore for a long time, Dick,” Wally frowns. “Are you okay?”

Dick quickly recomposes himself and shrugs. With that small movement he now feels how truly wet his body is and _I gotta take a shower. Right_ now _or else I’ll never be clean again._

“I’ll get Alfred to check them out,” Dick presses the up button. “Maybe give it one more day?”

Wally doesn’t look convinced, but the elevator chimes and Dick’s gone before any more questions are asked.

  
  


***

  
  


Dick’s finally showered!

His skin aches from being scrubbed hard and his head’s burning from the blow-drier but he feels a whole lot cleaner.

Dick checks out his reflection in the full-body mirror hanging beside his bed. He looks… undesirable. His eyes are red from the shampoo getting into them and soap he rubbed vigorously onto them. His skin, normally a healthy tan is transformed into an angry shade of raw pink thanks to the scorching water and the violent scrubbing. And the shirt he wears-- two sizes too big for him-- turns his perfect muscular physique into a small shapeless blob. Even though the shirt already hangs off of him like a badly wrapped present he tugs on it, willing it to become longer. It stretches and he tugs on it again. He then pulls the waistband of his baggy sweatpants up over his stomach, as high as it’ll go. _Okay. Nice._ He tries out a few variations of a smile, and walks out of his bedroom wearing the nicest one.

When Wally catches a glimpse of Dick’s outfit from the couch it looks like he’s trying his best to not burst out laughing.

“You look like you’re wearing Jason’s clothes,” He points at Dick’s get-up with the TV remote in his hand.

“They _are_ Jason’s,” Dick lies. He bought some ill-fitting clothes after the…

Dick clenches his jaw. _Just. Say it. Just think it. It’s nothing._

After the accident. After **he** died.

Dick’s starting to think he’s really got a handle on these thoughts, but now he’s rubbing his cheek against his shoulder again. The rough cotton scrapes at his sore skin. _Great._

Dick sits down at their tiny dining table, able to see what was playing on the TV, but away from the casual affection he’d receive if he sat next to Wally. _Not yet._ He tells himself. _Something will… happen if you don’t wait. You can’t do it._

“You look like a child,” Wally says to Dick before turning his attention back to the TV.

_Children are unfuckable… to most people. But_ technically _I’m not a baby so that’s fine_. And Dick relishes in the statement. For now, Wally’s not speaking about the ‘you’re not acting like yourself’ conversation and Dick’s thankful for that.

They watch random TV shows together instead of _Star Wars_ like Wally originally wanted, but neither of them mind. He honestly doesn’t even know what’s going on-- laughing at some slapstick comedy, wincing at low-budget action sequences-- until a short but graphic sex scene pops up out of nowhere and he suddenly feels sick.

He looks away, but the image is ingrained into his brain-- a love interest on top of the main character.

**_She’s_ ** _on top of me._

_I have to take another shower._ Dick stands up after the scene cuts away, his hands slamming a bit too hard onto the top of the dining table. _I’m still_ _dirty._

“Dick?” Wally asks, an eye on the TV and turning down the volume. “Something wrong?”

“I… need to take a shower,” Dick mumbles, almost tripping over the leg of his chair. **_Her_ ** _hand on my cheek!_ He claws at his cheek furiously.

“Hey, you just took a shower,” Wally turns and right as the words leave his mouth his eyes widen. _He knows!_ “Dick, wait--”

“Wally,” Dick says in his most commanding voice, holding up a hand. “Don’t.” He retreats back to his bathroom, flinging open the door and gripping the edge of the porcelain sink.

_Alright, focus. Senses._ Dick can see: his reddish eyes in the reflection of the mirror, still red from the soap. He can smell: the lemony cleaner Wally liked to keep in the bathroom, something he sprayed onto his hands before washing them off (just to get _extra_ clean). He can feel: the dampness of the sink, still wet after the condensation from the shower. He can hear: Wally’s footsteps right behind him.

_Oh shit._

“Dick?”

“Yeah?” Dick’s eyes are glued to a bit of toothpaste stuck to the drain.

“What _happened_ to you?” Wally sounded… broken. Why did he sound like that? Dick didn’t like it. 

“I don’t wanna talk about it,” Dick’s knees slowly give out and before he knows it he’s sitting down on the bathroom floor. 

“Dick--” Wally sits down next to him but keeps his distance. DIck wants to pull him closer, but he also doesn’t think he’s ready to be touched by anyone. “Look. I respect your privacy, but if you keep this inside for too long you’re not going to be able to--”

Wally doesn’t get to finish his sentence because Dick shoves him aside and makes it to the toilet _just_ in time to get rid of the bile he’s been tasting at the back of his throat all night long. It burns him, the burning sensation similar to a feeling one would get after screaming their throat to ruins.

_Defeated._ Is the only word Dick is thinking of right now.

_Defeated_. 

After all that time trying to prove that he was strong, Dick Grayson has finally fallen.

Dick’s trembling on his legs like a newborn deer and steps very carefully, one foot in front of the other until he gets to the sink. Out of the corner of Dick’s eye, he can see that Wally watches from his spot on the floor. He watches Dick rinse his mouth. He watches Dick open up the mouthwash bottle on his second try. He watches Dick spit out the mouthwash. He watches Dick wash his face with shaky hands. He watches Dick scratch his cheek. Again. And again.

“Hey--” Wally’s standing now, his voice impossibly soft. “Don’t do that.”

Dick lowers his hand. “Honestly, I don’t think I can really stop…. **it** always comes back.”

“What always comes back?” Wally leans against the white bathroom wall. And as Wally does this, Dick notices how small the room is. He notices how the speedster has the only exit blocked off.

“Can we…” Dick swallows thickly, trying _not_ to stand on his tiptoes to make sure the exit’s still there. “Can first we get out of this room?” He asks.

Wally’s position shifts so he’s leaning against the doorframe and Dick flies out of the bathroom like a caged bird. He finds a spot on his bed and sits down on it.

“I’m gonna say it again,” Wally says from his spot against the doorframe. “I respect your privacy. But if something’s going on… something affecting your daily life to this extent… You need to talk to someone.”

Dick opens his mouth, but Wally gently cuts him off.

“It doesn’t have to be _me_ if you don’t want to talk to me, but go see… someone. Someone who you know can help you.”

Dick considers a few situations. “I think I’ll tell you,”

“I’m ready when you are,” Wally crosses his arms, still leaning against the doorframe. He didn’t make any approaches-- something Dick dislikes but something he’s relieved for. He hates how he can’t make up his fucking mind.

“So there’s this girl,” Dick feels like scratching his cheek again, but stops. He chooses to rub his hand against the fluffy bedspread instead. “ **Tarantula** .” He inhales, deep. He can feel the ghost of her hand against his thighs, the memory of her mouth against his neck. “ **She** killed **him** … **She** killed **Blockbuster**.”

He shudders and rolls his shoulders forward.

He can do this.

He can do this.

He can. 

“I’m gonna hold your hand,” Wally comes over to the bed. Slowly. He sits down. When Dick looks at him he sees Wally’s _I’m_ actually _super worried about you_ face. “It’s just a grounding technique.”

Dick’s blood suddenly boils for no reason at all. “I _know_ what a grounding technique is Wally, I’ve been using them a lot lately,”

Wally doesn’t react, making Dick feel worse. He only says; “My bad,” Like it’s his fault. If anything it’s Dick’s fault.

It’s all Dick’s fault. It somehow always is.

“I’m uh, I’m sorry, Wall” Dick takes his hand in his, controlling the movement. It’s nice.

“It’s not your fault, Dick,” Wally says quietly. “Whatever **Ta** \-- whatever **she** did… it’s not your fault.”

“I… know,” Dick looks off, outside the window and at the city lights. “I want to believe it, but for some reason I can’t.”

“What do you mean by that?”

“Well, if I’d only said _no_ louder… God Wally, if I had just pushed her away… If I tried a little harder to stop her from killing **him** …” Dick doesn’t even notice his free hand going up to his cheek until he feels his nails against his skin.

He scratches harder.

“Hey,” Wally’s hand moves ultra-slow and pushes Dick’s down. “Stop it. Look at me.”

Dick’s eyes are still glued to the window, watching. Looking for something.

“ _Look_ at me, Dick,” Wally’s head tilts to the side, trying to make eye contact.

Dick turns his head over, worried something might be different about his best friend. But no, it’s the same thick eyebrows. The same bottle-green eyes. The same splash of freckles across the nose. The same concentrated, clenched jaw. It’s… comforting to see Wally look the same.

“Whatever she did was _her_ choice, okay?” Wally says, and Dick’s eyes break away. “ _Hey_.”

Dick looks back. He doesn’t want to, but he can’t help it.

“I wouldn’t lie to you, Dick. Whatever she did was something she chose to do all on her own,” Wally runs a thumb across Dick’s knuckles. “You told her stop once, and if she respected you she would’ve listened.”

Something spikes again and Dick’s stomach clenches. “But I _taught_ her, Wall. Her actions weren’t my choice but they might as well have been! I told her how to do everything-- I showed her all the ropes!”

“It’s not your fault she didn’t listen to you,” Wally keeps his voice even and calm. “People don’t always listen to their mentors.” The corner of Wally’s mouth quirks upward a bit. “Like how you’d sneak out of the Manor despite whatever Bruce told you.” He frowns a little at himself. “Sorry about the bad joke, I’m not the… best at this stuff.”

“But… it’s different,” _Because that was_ me _and Bruce._

“How different is it, really?” Wally raises an eyebrow.

“It.. it just is,” Dick squeezes Wally’s hand. “I don’t know.”

“You don’t know,” Wally echoes while nodding his head thoughtfully, like he’s trying to think about what to say next.

They sit in silence for a little bit.

“Did she… do anything else that night?” Wally asks.

Dick squeezes his eyes shut. When he speaks, his voice is almost a whisper.

“ **She** uh…” He shakes his head and he almost laughs at his audacity to be this dramatic about it. “We had sex.”

Wally’s eyebrows knit together. “You two had sex?”

“On the… rooftop,” Dick shakes his head again and bites into his chapped lip until he tastes flesh.

“After **she** killed **Blockbuster**?” Wally looks confused. “Didn’t you have a--” He cuts himself off and it’s obvious he’s really trying to think about what to say next. “Weren’t you upset?”

“Well, yeah,” Dick states. 

“Annnnd… that’s it?”

“Well, I told **her** no but…” Dick’s smiling for some reason. Why was he smiling? Nobody took him seriously when he smiled, but he continued smiled anyway. “ **She** insisted.”

“I don’t think that’s _sex_ , Dick,” Wally said, his voice back to being quiet. “It’s rape.”

“I don’t…” Dick shakes his head again.

“Think about it, alright?” Wally shifts his position on the bed. “You said no, but she forced you into it. No matter how you look at it, it spells harassment.”

“It’s not the same,” Dick repeats. He lets go of Wally’s hand and Wally lets him.

“Actually, it _is_ the same,”

“But I could’ve pushed her away. I’m… stronger than her. I could’ve declined _louder_ ,”

“Dick?” Wally looks odd. Dick can’t place the expression he’s making onto any known charts. “No means no.”

Another wave of fresh rage courses through Dick. “Look, I _know_ that already,”

“If no means no,” Wally says, his voice still even. “Then why was it different that time?”

Dick sits there, mystified.

Wally was… right.

Dick tries to think about the _what-ifs_ . He tries to come up with an argument from **her** side and

Nothing.

Tears start to poke at the edges of Dick’s eyes but he doesn’t know why they’re there. 

“I--” He laughs. He-- honest-to-God-- starts to _laugh_ in this moment. _It’s ridiculous_ he tells himself. _Why am I laughing? Why_ is he laughing at something like this? He then feels the first tear running down his cheek and everything is _real_ and it’s so _fresh_ all of those _touches_ all of those _feelings_ and then. 

Everything comes crashing down on top of him

He turns to Wally, finding a temporary haven in his arms. He sobs into his friend’s chest, crying harder than he thinks he’s ever cried before. 

And Wally sits there.

He lets him cry because he knows how long Dick’s tried to stay strong.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so dick’s habits/reactions and his inner monologue stem from myself (it wasn’t sexual and i’m doing fine now……… minus thinking about my Feelings while writing this oop--).
> 
> i tweaked everything a bit after research, but if anything seems inaccurate to you please go ahead and comment about it so i can rework this to be more in character/realistic!


End file.
